


Nineteen

by runsinthefamily



Series: Nineteen [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Hawke gets shot down but she gets up again, UST, Varric gets protective, age kink, h/c, shame!boner, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kmeme prompt: <i>I desperately want to see a barely legal scrape grace F!Hawke taking names, kicking ass, and hitting on Anders.<br/></i></p><p>Flirty F!Hawke, overprotective Varric, and a special appearance by the Cockblocking Deepstalker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawke

"It's not such a big deal!" Hawke ducked under the heavy swing of a mace, spun on one heel, and drove both daggers backwards into the thug's flank. The man fell, choking on blood.

"Not a big deal?" Isabela kicked another thug between the legs, brought her knee up into his face as he bent over, and gutted him from hip to ribcage. "You're a child! You're an infant! It's delicious as all hell, Hawke, how could you keep this from me?"

Hawke flung a dagger past the other woman's shoulder into a charging thug's eye. "Because I knew you'd never shut up about it!"

The last man fell, groaning, and Isabela kicked him hard in the temple to shut him up. "Well, really, it's impossible to ignore, sweet thing. Maker, when I remember myself at nineteen ..." she shivered slightly. "Newly widowed, newly rich. Everything so ... new," she savored the last word.

"Refugee, ex-mercenary, hiding an apostate sister from the Templars," Hawke pointed out. "I think the shiny is a little worn off by now."

"No, no," said Isabela, bending to rifle the pockets of her last victim. "You're shiny as a new coin, Hawke. Anytime you want me to dirty you up a bit, you just let me know. Oooh, Hawke!" She spun, hands full of coin, a glint in her eye. "Have you ever kissed a woman? Oh, Hawke, can it be me?"

Hawke laughed, helplessly. "If I say yes, will you shut up already?"

"Probably not, but don't let that deter you." Isabela smirked.

"Here we go," said Hawke, pulling papers from a bloodstained pouch. "Shipping manifest, letter of marque ... this is it."

"Thank the Maker," said Isabela, straightening and stretching her back out. "I'm getting too old for this shit."

"You're twenty-six," said Hawke. "If I'm an infant, then you're still a toddler."

Isabela glared at her. "How do you know that?"

Hawke ticked the items off on her fingers. "You were widowed at nineteen, you got your ship the following year, you celebrated with Anders at the Pearl, that was his fourth escape attempt, he was twenty-three at the time, he's twenty-nine now." She shrugged. "It's just math."

"And how," purred Isabela, "do you know how old Anders is?"

Hawke ducked her head and very intently searched another body. "Ooh, look, a ... pouch of stones."

"Haaaaawke?" Isabela drawled. "What _else_ do you know about Anders, hmm? What else do you _want_ to know about Anders?"

"Maker defend me," muttered Hawke. "Please, please, Isabela ..."

"So adorable," said Isabela. "Look, you're blushing! Andraste's knickers, I could just eat you up." She threw an arm around Hawke's shoulders and chucked her under the chin. "If it doesn't work out with Sparklefingers, say you'll let me eat you up."

"I'm not saying anything," said Hawke.

"Well, you should," said Isabela. "Because Anders won't. Let Mamma Izzy give you some advice, kitten. You want something? Put out your hand and take it. Firmly. But gently. And remember to pay attention to the noises that he makes, they'll let you know if you're doing it right."

"Thank you, Isabela," said Hawke and disentangled herself. "For your sage wisdom. We've got to get these papers back to the client."

"And then to the Hanged Man!" Isabela clapped her hands together.

"I should really go home," said Hawke. "Mother will worry."

"Skip out on your curfew," said Isabela and hooked her elbow through Hawke's. "Come play with the big kids. I promise that we'll be nice."

"No you won't," said Hawke, smiling.

"No, we won't," agreed Isabela.

"Riviani!" greeted Varric. "Babyface!"

"I will end you, Varric," said Hawke.

"Don't worry, I'll only use it in private." He handed her a mug of what was ostensibly ale. "In public, and in writing, you are always and only Hawke."

"I do have a first name," she said, sitting down. Varric's private apartment smelled better than the taproom downstairs, but not by much. It was still better than Gamlen's hovel, crowded as it was with the four of them and the dog.

"I know, I know," said Varric. "Your last name is so evocative, though. Hawke. A hero's name if there ever was one."

"I like Babyface," said Isabela and chucked Hawke under the chin again.

The door opened and Merril and Aveline came in. Merrill looked worried and confused, as always, and Aveline was pinching the bridge of her nose. "I just don't understand," said Merrill. "It's a game, it's about who has the fastest hands ... Oh, hello Hawke, Isabela. You look a bit sweaty, have you been off getting into trouble in dark alleys?" She made a couple of gestures that could, if you squinted, have been punches or knife stabs.

Isabela laughed raucously.

"Just a small bit of business," said Hawke. "What have you been up to? Fast hands? What's that all about?"

"She's been pinching bums in the Lowtown market," said Aveline.

Varric choked on his ale.

"It's a game!" Marrill said. "We used to play it all the time in camp. You can't say that people don't play it here, I've been pinched plenty. I'm just not fast enough to see who it is."

Isabela laughed harder.

"Let's just play," said Aveline, dropping into a chair.

"Is this ... everyone?" asked Hawke.

"Fenris will be by later," said Varric, wiping ale out of his chest hair. "The Chantry Boy said he was taking confessions this evening. I get this feeling like he's avoiding us for some reason."

"Really?" asked Hawke. "He's around Lowtown a lot lately. Always stopping in, asking after Mother."

"Oh, reeeeally?" asked Isabela.

"Oh, please, he's a Chantry brother," said Hawke. "Very, very Chantry. I'm surprised that we don't see the Grand Cleric's fingertips waggling everytime he opens his mouth."

Merrill's brow creased, and she opened her mouth, but Isabela beat her to it. "Like he's a puppet, kitten," she said. "You know?" She made an extremely evocative gesture.

"Oh! Oh, how uncomfortable," said Merrill.

"So ... I guess we can just play, then," said Hawke, trying not to look at the door.

"Why, are we missing someone?" asked Isabela archly. She was grinning a little too widely.

"Sorry, I'm a bit late," said Anders as he came in. "Had to dodge a Templar patrol just outside Darktown."

Hawke turned, too quickly, and smiled. "Anders," she said.

He smiled back at her, a little crookedly. "Starting without me?"

"So long as you're here for the finish," said Isabela.

"Pull up a chair, Blondie," said Varric and pushed the one next to Hawke out with a foot.

She could smell him, Maker help her. Elfroot and soap and that strange icy tang that seemed to be his magic, or possibly Justice. She was going to lose _so_ much money tonight.


	2. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders. Why is he so tall?

He could _smell_ her, by Andraste's lacy knickers. Knife oil and ginger and that sweet-salt tang that was her clean girlish sweat. He was going to get no sleep at all tonight.

"Aaanders," she sang out drunkenly and then giggled, staggering.

He put his arm around her waist and steadied her, trying to hold his breath.

"You are doing a very good job," she told him. "Of walking me home. Because walking izzn ... isned ... is not easy." Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket just under his right ear, brushing his neck.

"Is that so," he said. She was so fucking cute when she was pissed, all giggles and affection. A little too much affection.

"Anders," she said, and then again, in a half-tired, half sensual sigh that nearly brought him to half-mast, "Aaaaanders."

"Yes, Hawke?" he asked. _She's nineteen!_ he told himself. _SHE IS A CHILD._ No matter how handsy and pouty and damp-eyed she got, he was not going to do anything other than pour her in through the door of her uncle's shack and then go home. _AND FOCUS ON THE TASK AT HAND._ And quite possibly wank.

"Why are you so tall?" she asked. "Is it - why are your eyes like that? All - pretty. Hey. Hey."

"Yes, Hawke?" There was the short staircase up to Gamlen's door. Thank the Maker.

"I wanna see," she said and her fingers were abruptly in his hair, combing, scraping along his scalp. The tie fell out and his hair, freed, fell forward around his face. "Oh," she said.

They were standing very close. Her face was tilted upward, her lips moist and slightly parted, her eyes wide and heartbreakingly blue, if a little unfocused. She twisted a wisp of his hair between her fingers.

"Hawke ..."

"It's soft," she said, dreamily. "I thought it would be coarse, it's so thick, but it's soft."

"Go to bed, Hawke," he said, trying for drily amused and only managing hoarse.

She pouted at him, but turned and made her way stumblingly up the stairs.

He was making sure she got to the door safely, he told himself, not watching her pert, nineteen-year-old arse sway and flex. When she was at last inside he sighed, banged his head a few times against a wall, and went back to the clinic.

To focus.


	3. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is resilient.

"Honestly," said Hawke. "Andraste's Ashes? For sale in Lowtown? How stupid to you have to be?" She wiped her blades on the coat of her last opponent and stood.

"More like how desperate," said Anders. "It's a pretty old con, though it's usually dragon blood or "ancient elvhen artifacts" being peddled."

"Don't these people know there's a bona-fide miracle maker right in Darktown?" asked Hawke, and nudged Anders.

He flushed slightly. "I don't know about - "

"The only miracle is that he hasn't succumbed to the demon in his head and slaughtered us all," said Fenris. "We should move on."

"I agree with Broody. Not about the demon thing!" said Varric, raising his hands as Anders glared. "About the not being here anymore."

"Mmmm," said Hawke, glancing around. "Hey, this is near my place. Wow, and I thought my opinion of the neighborhood couldn't get any lower."

She fell back as they wound their way back to where Sergeant Melindra was waiting and bumped Anders companionably on the shoulder. "Don't pay attention to Fenris," she said. "He's - well, he's sort of an asshole, but he has his reasons."

"He's blinded by hate," said Anders. "He's dangerous, Hawke."

"Aren't we all?" she glanced at him with the half-grin that Isabela had told her was 'wicked and naughty and makes me want to spank you a little.'

Anders huffed a laugh and shook his head. "I suppose we are."

"Sooo," said Hawke, swinging her arms and accidentally brushing her knuckles against his. "Getting pretty close to that magic number."

Anders shifted his hand away from hers to straighten his ridiculous, shedding, sexy pauldrons. "Magic number?"

"Fifty sovereigns," she reminded him. "I'm almost there. Varric's keeping it for me at the moment. Can't trust my uncle not to raid the stash and spend a week at the Rose, and it's not the sort of money you wander about with in your pockets. I just need another eight and five silver, and we're good to go. Does ... your offer stand?"

"To go with you? Yes." His face went a little grim. "I can't let you run off without someone who knows what to expect."

"I've fought darkspawn before," she told him.

"What? When?" he asked, looking at her.

"Did Varric not tell you that one?" she asked, preening a little under the attention. "When we fled Lothering," she said. Her smile faltered a little. "The regular ones weren't too bad. The ogre was a - different story." Suddenly she regretted bringing the subject up. Stupid, brave, stupid Carver with his stupid giant sword. "My brother died."

"I'm sorry," said Anders and put his hand on her shoulder. It was large and warm.

"He was a bit of a tit," said Hawke. "But I loved him. Mother took it hardest. He was sixteen."

"I can't believe the life you've had, sometimes," said Anders. "Losing so much and coming out the other side so strong and optimistic. Your resilience is remarkable."

Hawke smirked at him again. "Oh, I'm resilient," she said. "Pound me as hard as you like, I'll keep coming back for more."

Anders tripped and nearly fell.

"I'm fine," he waved her off, bent over. "Just a ... stone in my boot. I'll catch up. Go ahead!"

Hawke stomped off, irritated. Just when she was getting somewhere ...


	4. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric catches wise. Anders has a dream.

"She's a spitfire," said Varric. "Isn't she?"

Anders glanced over to where Hawke was grinning at the Sergeant's sour expression. "She's definitely ... exuberant," he agreed. Oh, Maker, she was saying something now, with _that_ expression on her face. The sergeant went from sour to positively prunefaced and Hawke let out a laugh. Fenris, standing beside her, raised an eyebrow.

"Well, she's young," said Varric. "Very young."

Anders looked down at a slight nudge against his knee and found Bianca resting there, quivering with tension, a bolt loaded and ready.

"Very young," repeated Varric. "And it would be a shame if anyone decided to take advantage of the fact. I know that Bianca for one would probably get upset."

Anders could feel the pressure in his head. Everything seemed to sprout ghostly blue coronas, and he shut his eyes quickly, and took a deep, slow breath. "Probably not the best idea to threaten me," he said when he felt in control again. _I COULD KILL YOU BEFORE YOU PULLED THAT TRIGGER_. "And it is unwarranted, in any case. I'm - even if she weren't ten years my junior, I would never ..." He opened his eyes again. "There's no room for that in my life anymore."

Varric holstered Bianca. "That's just sad, Blondie," he said.

Hawke came back toward them, slipping coins into her pouch. Fenris skulked along behind her. "Seven sovereigns and five silver to go!" she said jubilantly. "What's with the grim? What's going on?" she asked, looking from Varric to Anders.

"Nothing," said Varric. "We're thinking of having a brooding contest. Have to bone up if we're going to challenge the elf."

Fenris snorted. "If we are done with this task, I will leave you," he said to Hawke.

"Sure," she said and laid a hand delicately on his gauntlet, well away from skin. "Thank you. It's been good having a greatsword on my side again."

The elf's face softened fractionally. "You are welcome." He nodded stiffly at Varric, ignored Anders, and stalked away.

Hawke watched him go, her mobile mouth drawn down, a slight crease between her eyes. She looked ... sad? Concerned? _OVER THAT ANIMAL._

Anders turned hastily away. "Well, I should be getting back to the clinic," he said.

"Wait," said Hawke. "I, um, let me buy you lunch! In thanks. For helping."

"I don't get lunch?" Varric asked, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"You're here for your own selfish reasons," said Hawke, punching him in the shoulder. "No lunch for business partners, only self-sacrificing mages with poofy pauldrons."

"I'm sure he's busy," said Varric and met Anders's eyes.

"I am," said Anders.

"Aw," complained Hawke. She reached out and tugged at one of his buckles. "Too busy for me?"

Maker, her lower lip, all tremulous and plump. "Another time," Anders said and pulled away. Her square, capable, dextrous fingers lingered and dragged at the free end of his belt.

"I'll buy you lunch, how's that?" said Varric to Hawke and herded her away.

"Bye, Anders!" she glanced behind her as she went and waved.

"Bye," he said.

Just before they rounded the corner, Varric brought two fingers up to his eyes and then pointed them at Anders.

***

 _Anders, she says, and it wakes him up. It's dark, but there's enough light (from where?) to reveal her lips, quirked just so, and her tumble of auburn hair, and the crinkle in her adorable nose. Anders, she says again, lower, intimate, and then she's crawling into his narrow bed and she's naked, gloriously, sweetly naked. He is too, and the slide of her skin against his is sinful. I want it to be you, she says, whispers, breathes into his ear. One little hand goes down to his cock and finds him hard and ready. She crushes her breasts against him, nipples pebbled hard and high, seeks his mouth with her own. Please, she says against his lips. Please, don't deny me._

 _He gives in, rolls them in his bed, puts his hands all over her. She's flawless, like cream, like silk. He wants to make this good for her, but it's been too long and he's too desperate. He slides a finger into her and she gasps and arches her back and she's wet, so very wet. When he thrusts his cock in, she moans. She's tight as a fist, but the glide in and out is so smooth, so liquid. Anders, she cries out, and it's too much, the sound of her ecstasy is the tipping point for his, and he loses himself, looses himself, lays claim to her with his seed and his triumphant, worshipful cry ..._

"Priana!" Anders jolted himself awake with the shout, nearly falling off his bed. For a moment he lay, blinking into the hot, fetid darkness of the clinic and then smacked both hands to his face in exasperation. A wet dream. Like the most callow of boys. If it weren't for Justice, and the protection having a resident spirit gave him in the Fade, he would have thought it was a desire demon, so perfectly had it skewered him where he was most vulnerable. But no. Just his own, heated, selfish fantasies.

 _IT IS NOT JUST, TO USE HER SO WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE. Wank fantasies hurt no one,_ he told himself, or Justice, or the place where they both became one. _And this was a dream, I'm hardly in control of that._ He could be, though, if he concentrated before he went to sleep. He'd grown so lax in the last year, trusting in Justice to keep him safe. The darkspawn dreams had even gotten fewer and farther between. _NO MORE._ It was hard enough to act normally around her without remembering lascivious dreams.

He wiped himself down roughly with his shirt and tossed it to the floor. After the Deep Roads, he should pull away. The coin he made with her was helpful at the clinic, but he had done well enough before. Yes. Best for all concerned.

 _Please don't deny me ... ___

 _ _Shut up, Hawke,_ he told himself. _I've got enough voices in my head, thanks.__


	5. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian brings his shame!boner over for a visit.

"I just want you to be safe!" Mother wrapped an arm around Bethany, tucking her tightly in. Bethany sighed and submitted.

"Well, I just want this family to sodding eat once in a while," said Hawke.

"You just got free of that awful mercenary company, can't you find work closer to home? Do something that doesn't result in you coming home at all hours with bloodstains on your clothing and, and ..."

Hawke threw her hands in the air. "I'm doing what I have to, Mother, if we don't want to spend the rest of our lives in this dump."

"Well, la tee da!" said Gamlen. "Sorry if my home doesn't measure up. You're welcome to head back to Ferelden and snuggle up with the darkspawn."

"We're not ungrateful," began Leandra.

"Ungrateful!" Hawke shouted. "I've been carrying his dead weight since we set foot in this cursed city."

"You mouthy brat!"

"Please stop shouting!"

"Mother, don't get excited."

"Rowf rowf rowf!"

"Shut up that damn dog!"

Unable to stand one more second, Hawke flung the front door open, stormed out, and ran face-first into a white and silver breastplate.

"Hawke!" Large, warm, archery-calloused hands caught her as she rebounded.

"Oh," she said, rubbing her nose. "Hello, Sebastian. I um, I don't think this is a good time to visit with Mother."

Inside, the shouting continued at volume, Bethany's pleas for calm a sad, continual underscore. She wished that she could take her sister out more, but Bethy still had trouble not sparking when she was overwrought, and the Templars here had razor-sharp instincts. It made it that much more impressive that Anders had remained free for so long. He wasn't exactly nondescript, after all. Tall and lanky and blond and just so very ....

"... sorry?" she said, aware that Sebastian had been talking.

"I said, perhaps you might like to talk a walk? Until your family has, ah, worked out their differences?"

She grinned ruefully. "We'd made it all the way to Antiva, and they'd still be arguing. But, sure, let's walk. I wanted to wander down to the docks anyway, supposedly there was a ship from Ferelden this morning. News from home, and so on."

They made their way through the sewer-rotted-food-garbage stink of Lowtown into the sewer-dead-fish-rotted-wood stink of the Docks. Sebastian even walked like a Chantry brother, upright and proper, his hands clasped behind his back.

"I must admit," he said as they passed another knot of sailors dicing on the quay, "I had an ulterior motive in seeing you today."

"Oh really?" She couldn't drawl quite as effectively as Isabela, but she got the job done, judging from the red that crept up around his ears.

"Hawke," he said firmly. "You should think about the company you keep and it's effect on you. You are young and the decisions we make when we are ... not as experienced ... can lead to ...."

Her eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with the company I keep?" she asked.

"What isn't?" he said. "Aveline is, of course, an upright woman and Varric is alright, in his way, but the pirate is openly promiscuous, the Dalish is a blood mage, Fenris is unstable, and that mage in Darktown is," he had the wit to lower his voice, "an _abomination._ I do not understand your attachment to him, and that is a fact. It will end in tragedy, sooner or later. He's not good for you, Priana."

He was gripping her upper arms now, had pulled her to a stop and was gazing earnestly into her eyes. His hands were a little too warm, now that she noticed.

"He's not good for me," she said, low, so that he had to bend forward to hear her clearly. "But you are, is that it?"

He let go of her as if she burned him and flushed to the roots of his hair.

"That's not what I - I've sworn vows, Hawke, I would never - "

"Hmmm," she said, and decided to rescue him. He wasn't a _bad_ person, after all. "I appreciate your concern, Sebastian, and when I have a moment to myself I'll think hard on what you've said. I promise."

For some reason that flustered him more and Hawke was left, hand on hips, watching him retreat.


	6. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is in trouble.

The guards on the beach walked away, sullenly, and Elren and Lia followed, Lia casting one glance backward.

Anders felt nothing but satisfaction, grim and righteous. What they had done in that ruin had been justice, of the purest, most obvious kind.

"Hawke." It was Aveline, her voice gentle.

Anders turned and saw Hawke sitting on the sand, looking down at her hands. They were red, still, from Kelder's blood. Aveline went down on one knee beside her.

"I just never -" Hawke drew a breath. "Not like that. Not when .... he wanted it. Why does it feel so much worse that he wanted it?"

Aveline bowed her head and when she spoke her voice was thick. "Because you always wonder if there was something else you could have done."

Hawke turned at that, her hands forgotten. "Oh, Aveline, I'm a horse's ass." She gripped the older woman's pauldron and pulled. Their foreheads met, gently.

Some piece of shared history, Anders recognized.

Aveline drew in a deep breath, then clapped Hawke on the shoulder. "On your feet," she said. "It's a long road back to Kirkwall."

Isabela handed Hawke a damp cloth as she clambered up. "Wash off that misplaced guilt, sweet thing," she said. "That man belonged dead."

Hawke managed half a smile, scrubbing at her hands.

Aveline set a brisk pace although Isabela contrived to saunter regardless, dogging Aveline's steps and producing a near-endless blather about sex and piracy and sex. Aveline punctuated it now and then with terse, irritated remarks.

Which left Anders bringing up the rear with Hawke. Again.

She was uncharacteristically quiet, however, picking at the filthy edges of her fingernails, lips pursed in thought. They looked twice as full and pillowy, all pushed out like that ...

 _Bad Anders. Bad, bad, Anders. SHE IS IN PAIN, CEASE ADMIRING HER FLESH._

"Here," he said. He reached over, took her hands, and swept them with his favorite pre-examination spell. Flickering blue fire rushed across her skin from wrist to fingertips, painlessly burning away every trace of blood.

She let out a surprised gasp. "Uh. Wow."

"Clean as the Viscount's crown," he said. He was still holding her hands. He should probably let them go.

She titled her head as she looked up at him, smiling. "You're full of amazing little tricks, aren't you?" she asked.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea." It slipped out before he was aware he was going to say it.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted and he was still holding her hands and her fingers slid just a little against his palms and _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_

He stepped away, let her go. "We're getting left behind," he said and turned before he could see the hurt in her eyes.

"Anders."

He could help it, he had to look.

It wasn't hurt that filled her eyes or drew her lips up into that smirk. She looked ... she looked just as she did before battle, actually, right down to the way she rocked a little forward onto her toes.

Oh, Maker, he was in trouble.

"Thanks," she said and flexed her hands slowly. "Clean fingers are so much more ... useful." She walked by him with a little sideways glance.

Oh, Maker, he was in _so much_ trouble.


	7. Hawke/Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline puts in her two cents/threat of bodily harm.

"I saw that, by the way," said Isabela as they hit the gates of Kirkwall and Anders beat a hasty retreat to Darktown. Aveline, for some reason, followed him.

"Saw what?" asked Hawke, innocent as a lamb.

"You. And him. With the holding of hands and the _meaningful_ looks." Isabela poked her in the ribs. "Looks like prrrrogress!"

Hawke squirmed and laughed. "He was just - he cleaned my hands. It was this spell, all tingly and kind of, I don't know, warm."

"That's not a spell, sweet thing," said Isabela. "That's your lady parts telling you to hoist his mizzen, already."

"I have it well in hand, thank you," said Hawke with great dignity.

"Oh ho!" said Isabela.

Hawke poked her in the ribs, harder. "Shut up with your innuendo. Can't I - can't I just like him? Does everything have to be dirty?"

"Yes," said Isabela. "Just ask Merrill."

"Augh," said Hawke and set off for home.

Isabela followed, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Don't be so serious, kitten," she said. "I'm just having a bit of fun. You hold hands and rub noses and take your time with your little apostate. It's never been my style, but they say fruit is sweeter for the ripening."

"You like to eat it green, do you?"

"Mmmmm," said Isabela and nibbled Hawke's ear. "Tasty!" she proclaimed, dodging Hawke's irritated swat.

***

Anders didn't realize that Aveline was following him until he was at the door to his clinic, disarming the glyph that held the doors shut.

"So," she said, making him jump at least a foot and nearly singe his eyebrows off with an uncontrolled bloom of magic. "Having heart to hearts with Hawke, are you?"

"Ah, what?" he said, shaking his hands to rid them of the residual heat.

Aveline stood in the middle of the thoroughfare, arms folded, legs apart. She looked exactly like Isabela's somewhat unkind description, capable of knocking down fortress walls, let alone a skinny, over-tired mage.

"Hawke," said Aveline. "And you. What's your intention?"

"To be her friend," he said. "That's all."

"I'm not going to stand in her way if she decides to ... pursue you," said Aveline. "But if she ends up crying on my shoulder because of you, mage, you will regret it." She didn't deliver it as a threat. It was a promise, sincere and heartfelt.

"Yes," he said. "I would."

Her face softened marginally at his words. "I think you have good intentions," she said. "But those are very rarely enough in this world. Be careful. Hawke is like - no, Hawke _is_ a sister to me. And she has seen enough sorrow."

"Yes," he said. "I know."

"Alright then," said Aveline. "Good day." She nodded and then strode off, her armor clanking, her back straight as a rod.

Anders rested his head against the clinic door, eyes closed. If any more of Hawke's friends showed up to shake a fist under his nose he was going to make a sign that said I HAVE NO IMPURE INTENTIONS TOWARD PRIANA HAWKE and wear it around town.

 _THAT WOULD BE A LIE._ "Shut up, Justice," he muttered and lit the lamp.

He was tired but perhaps a few hours of healing Kirkwall's most desperate would push him far enough over into exhausted to get some sleep. If he lay down now, he would only spend the time remembering the feel of her small, slender, calloused hands in his, the brush of her fingers, the way ...

"Healer?" A skinny woman holding an even skinnier child was standing beside him. "Is the clinic open?"

"Yes," he said, shaking himself. "Come in." He summoned up a smile. If he had to, he would heal all night.


	8. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BODY SHOTS, BODY SHOTS.

"Fifty sovereigns," said Hawke, waving her mug in the air between them, ignoring the way it was sloshing ale all over the table, her arm, and Merrill, laying unconscious on the table beside her. "Fifty. Sovereigns. Fifty! Sovereigns! Anders!"

"It's a lot," he agreed.

"Fifty!"

"So you keep saying."

"Fifty!"

"Indeed."

"And I earned it," she went on, earnestly. "Honestly and, well, not honestly in some cases. But some of it! With gathering herbs, that's honest work. And who misses bandits?"

"Not me."

"And also! Working for the Chantry! Although I sort of wish I'd killed that Patrice bitch. Think anyone would have paid me for that?"

"If I had any money, I would have,' said Anders.

"Cheers to that," said Hawke and downed her mug. "Bar wench!" she shouted, banging it on the table. "My cup is empty. Soon I will start to cry and then someone will need to comfort me, and no one wants that!"

 _I wouldn't say that. THESE THOUGHTS ARE IMPROPER AND NOTHING BUT A DISTRACTION. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE._ "Shut up, Justice," Anders muttered into his mug.

"Hey," said Hawke. "Hey! HEY SHUT UP!" The rest of their party ceased their chatter and laughter and focused in on their youthful leader, who climbed unsteadily onto the bench. Even Merrill stirred and looked up blearily.

"You are all the best friends a no-account dog lord refugee trash could have," she said. "And when I am rich and famous, I will still drink with each and every one of you. I will even drink here. I will even drink this." She waved her mug again, raining drops on them all like a benediction. "Because I love you. And you know, you know you do, even you, Fenris! You know you love me too. To love and terrible beer!"

They all cheered. Even Fenris.

"A rousing speech," said Varric as she clambered back down. "Did you practice that one in front of a mirror?"

"I only practice sultry looks in front of my mirror," she said. Turning, she tilted her head slightly and looked up through her lashes at Anders. "How'm I doing?"

 _Maker have mercy._ It helped, a little, that she was so very drunk and kept dissolving into giggles. Actually, no, that didn't help at all, because she swayed a bit and then collapsed against his pauldrons with a sigh.

"Doing all right there, Hawke?" he asked. Varric pinned him with a glare from one end of the table and Aveline from the other. There was literally nothing he could do at this point that wasn't going to draw ire from someone, somehow.

"'M good," she said absently, snuggling her nose into the feathers. "Oh!" she sat upright. "You promised," she pointed at Isabela. "To show Merrill and me body shots!"

"On that note," said Sebastian, a bit hoarsely. "I will withdraw. Goodnight all. Hawke and Varric, congratulations on the successful funding of your venture. May the Maker smile upon you."

"Bye, Sebs," said Hawke. "Pray for us and so on. In your Chantry. On your knees."

Anders watched the man's ears turn red with narrowed eyes.

"I will. Pray for you. Of course," he said stiffly, dropped a short bow, and left.

"Not nice, Hawke," said Isabela. "I approve."

"I don't understand," said Merrill, predictably, and then lay down again.

"So much for body shots," said Isabela. "It's not nearly as fun when the body is unconscious."

Hawke produced a truly epic pout. "Izzy," she said. "Izzy you promised. And tomorrow I go into the Deep Dark Deep Roads with no shots at all. None. And you're not coming and what if I die? And then you will have to live with a life in which you never taught me body shots."

Which is how Anders ended up sitting at a table that featured a nearly topless Hawke, squirming and giggling as Isabela licked her taut, shapely belly. There was salt, and shots of Corff's 'whiskey' and bits of fruit, but mostly there was Hawke's delicious, glowing skin.


	9. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk again, Hawke, you teenaged lush, you.

Once again, she was stumbling home in the presence of the most attractive apostate abomination this side of Tevinter. It was a cool night, at least, which was sharpening her mind a bit, thank Andraste. Her wrist still tingled where she'd managed to wheedle him into playing Isabela's game. A shiver ran through her at the memory of his tongue.

"Cold?" he asked.

"Mmm, a little," she said and used the excuse to snuggle up under his arm. The smell of elfroot enveloped her.

"You need better clothing," he said, his hand plucking at her sleeve.

"You're one to talk," she said. "How often has this thing been patched?" She poked him in the side.

"Are you critiquing my ensemble?" he asked, in high dudgeon. "I'll have you know, this is the very finest in fugitive fashion."

"I like the way you have to tie your boot together to keep it in one piece," she said. "I hear that's what they're doing in Orlais this season."

He laughed aloud.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, you should do that more often."

He glanced at her, eyes still crinkled up with merriment, face lightened, looking happy for once.

She stopped, put her hands on his cheeks, and kissed him.

For a glorious, wonderful moment he kissed her back and oh it was so much better than she'd imagined, from the warmth of his lips to the slide of his hands along her shoulders to the small, hungry sound he made that went straight to the pit of her stomach and made her arch her back and press against him and then one of his hands dropped to the small of her back to pull her even closer and his thigh slipped between hers and oh _Maker_ his tongue in her mouth she'd never wanted anything so bad in all her life -

And then he was pushing her away, both of them panting as though they'd run the length of Kirkwall. She made a tiny, protesting noise and reached for him.

"Shit," he said. "I'm sorry. Shit."

"You want to," she said. "Why won't you? You know how I feel."

"You're young ..." he began.

"Don't throw that at me. I'm an adult," she said. "I've been one since my father died."

"You're right," he said. "You're capable and resourceful and brave and charming and so beautiful, Priana. You deserve so much more than I can give you." He looked so self sacrificing and noble and miserable in that moment that she could have kicked him right in the arse.

Well. If he thought that Priana Hawke gave up that easily, he had some serious lessons ahead of him.

"Alright," she said. "I fully understand everything that you said to me tonight. I won't try to kiss you again."

He was eying her warily. "Well," he said. "Good. That's good. I hope we can still be friends."

"Of course," she said and smiled. "Best get off to bed," she said. "Early start tomorrow and all."

"Right," he said.

"I'll see you in the square."

"Right," he said.

"Goodnight then," she said, turned on her heel, and walked away. He was watching her, she knew that he was watching her, and she put a little extra sway into her step. Nothing as overt as Isabela's wiggle - 'open for business' as Aveline referred to it - but enough to be interesting. When she turned the corner, she glanced over her shoulder.

He was watching.


	10. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the Deep Roads, Varric is watching.

Anders didn't know what it said about him that he never got tired of watching her fight. She was power and grace and economy of motion, moving like she'd rehearsed each fight for hours before it ever happened. Her eyes lit, she got that little smile on her face, colour rose in her cheeks. And when the last enemy fell, she stepped back and gave a short, satisfied sigh. She looked like some spirit of battle, glorious and elegant and ...

"Maker's cock," Hawke complained, kicking a dead hurlock away. "The stink is unbelievable down here."

...and, well, then she opened her mouth. And suddenly she was just a girl again, cheeky and mouthy and still glorious but in a much more _touchable_ way. Not that he was going to touch her. Ever again. Unless it was for healing purposes. Or to catch her if she slipped. Or if they happened to brush up against one another in the narrow confines of the Deep Roads, which were very dangerous and he should really be paying attention to what was going on.

"Stop that!" he barked, and Varric paused with one gore-spattered hand halfway to his face. "Don't rub the blood in your eyes. Andraste's tits, weren't you listening when I told everyone to be careful with the stuff?"

Anders gave everyone a dose of his disinfectant fire, even Fenris, who flinched and sneered. Annoying as the elf was, Anders wouldn't wish the taint on anyone.

"So these are darkspawn," said Fenris. He wiped his blade down and sheathed it. "They die easily enough."

"Wait til the shrieks make an appearance," said Anders. "Or emissaries. Or alphas. Or ogres."

"Maker forfend," Hawke muttered, and he felt a quick stab of guilt. It wasn't worth riling Fenris if Hawke was caught in the crossfire.

"How about instead of listing possible disasters we focus on working our way around the current one?" suggested Varric. "The longer we take, the pissier Bartrand is going to be when we get back."

"Right," said Hawke. She rolled her shoulders, flipped her knives easily into their sheaths, and stepped out.

"You're watching her walk," said Varric after a couple of minutes.

"What? No, I'm not," said Anders. "I'm watching - for danger."

"Danger in her pants."

"Look, I'm not watching her."

"Well, I'm watching you."

"There's nothing to - Darkspawn!" Anders shouted and brought up his shields.

An alpha this time, huge and powerful, who laughed horribly when Hawke leapt at him and flung her aside with his scabby, spiky shield. She hit the wall, hard, and crumpled to the rocky floor.

His breath stopped. "Hawke! No!" He was overwhelmed by a rush of genlocks, barely had time to ward them off with a mental blast of force and had to follow it up immediately with a wall of ice to keep them at bay. He could see beyond them, the slight figure with auburn hair stirring feebly on the ground. "Varric! Hawke is down!" he screamed. The dwarf was embattled, backing frantically to get room to fire. "Fenris!" _Whoever, however, someone help her, Maker, please..._

Fenris appeared, tattoos lit with cold fire, and clove through the frozen darkspawn like they were twigs. "Get to her!" the elf snarled and then turned to engage the alpha as it lumbered at them.

Hawke was conscious when he fell to his knees beside her. Broken ribs, broken collarbone, broken right arm. Blood bubbled out of her nose. In his haste and fury and fear, his touch was not as refined as it might have been, and she screamed hoarsely as his magic burned through her, setting things right.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, smoothing her hair away from her face.

"Anders," she said and smiled at him.

"Priana," he said, his fingers lingering at her temple.

"Duck," she said, shoved him to one side, and rolled away. A black-bladed axe crashed into the stone where they'd sat. He flung out an instinctive Winter's Grasp. When Hawke stepped up behind the frozen hurlock and sank both daggers into its back, it cracked into a thousand tinkling, disgusting pieces.

"That was fucking amazing!" she whooped. "Have to remember that one." And then she was off again, spinning past genlock archers and leaving them choking on their own blood, hamstringing the alpha and sending it to its knees for Fenris's death blow, tossing a smoke bomb amid Varric's opponents and giving him half a breath to step back, set his feet, and launch a volley of arrows that feathered the remaining darkspawn.

After that, it was just mop up.

"Whatta team!" said Hawke, picking through the alpha's filthy pockets.

"You really will do anything for a bent copper," said Varric. She rolled the body with a grunt of effort and it disgorged a wash of tainted blood across the stone. "Maker, Hawke, will you quit that? I think I might be sick."

"Listen," she panted. "We're down here for treasure, right? And I'm not going to pass up the chance that - hah!" She dragged a little stained sack of unspeakable leather out of the noisome depths of the alpha's armor. "See? There's ... there's some silver in here! I think."

"I feel a draft this way," said Fenris.

"Finally," said Varric, sticking his head through the indicated hole. "Hey, this looks promising."

Anders took Hawke's elbow as she went past and turned her to face him. "Be more careful," he told her seriously. "No amount of lost dwarven gold is worth your life."

She blinked up at him, her expression softening, and she put a hand to his cheek. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, he swayed forward just an inch ...

... and she prodded him lightly just under his eye. "Got some blood there," she said. "I know you can't be re-tainted or whatever, but you might want to wipe it off anyway. You look like a savage." She smiled brightly and walked away, leaving him blinking.

"Still watching," said Varric into his ear and made him drop his staff.


	11. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is that sum game dialogue in my fanfic? Also, the much-anticipated Cockblocking Deepstalker Cameo!

Their little camp was huddled up against the wall behind a massive, broken pillar, ringed with Anders's glyphs. Paralysis, repulsion, a few cobbled-together things that simply shrieked like a boiling kettle when triggered. That one had saved their lives more than once since Bertrand had abandoned them.

Hawke sat up by the pillar, hugging her knees and watching the shifting, red shadows. Deep in a nearby crevice, lava seethed and muttered. She was really sick of being too hot, and dirty, and smelling darkspawn all the damned time. She was sick of watching her friends slowly losing hope. She was especially sick of watching Anders grow progressively more tired and skinny and hollow-eyed. Each night when he cast the glyphs it took just a little longer, took just a little more out of him. The last of their lyrium had gone days ago. He thought she didn't see, didn't notice the way his hands shook each time they were forced to fight their way through another knot of spiders or gang of genlocks.

He was an idiot. A self-sacrificing, noble, generous, kind-hearted, idiot with beautiful hands and eyes the colour of amber and even when he was filthy and exhausted and smelled of dead genlock, she still wanted to kiss him senseless.

Things had been going so well, too. By the time they'd found the thaig, he'd been stumbling over his words whenever she spoke to him, watching her when he thought she didn't see. Doing her morning stretches in front of him had been a nice touch. The way his face changed colour when she arched into a back walkover was ever so gratifying. Slowly wiping sweat from her neck and chest, also a winner. Once, when he'd been explaining again that they were to wash their hands thoroughly before eating, he'd glanced at her and promptly stumbled to a halt. She blinked, confused, and then realized that she'd bitten her lower lip and was slowly drawing it out, wet and plump and red, until it popped free.

She kept her use of that one to a minimum, lest it lose its power.

All in all, she thought she was making progress. Then Bertrand had to pull his stupid door slamming move, and now they were clawing their way back to the surface with hardly any food or water or even bedrolls. She'd thought the hold of the ship they'd taken from Ferelden had been uncomfortable. Sleeping on bare rock without so much as a blanket was definitely worse.

A small sound from behind her brought her whirling round, balanced on the balls of her feet, daggers in hand. Glyphs were all very well, but two days ago spiders had dropped on them from above and ever since she was extra paranoid.

It wasn't spiders. It was Anders, twitching in his sleep like a mabari pup, forehead creased. She sheathed her daggers with a fond smile. _Look at him, all dreaming and adorable. Even when he's sleeping, he still ..._

He stiffened, his face twisting in what looked like agony, and let out a small cry of, "no, please," followed by a sob.

Not dreams. Nightmares.

Hawke knelt down next to him and took him gently by the shoulder. "Anders," she whispered. "Wake up."

"Not ...no! Please," he said again, the words so filled with despair and anguish that she felt her eyes sting.

"Anders," she said, into his ear. "Wake up. Come on, it's alright."

His eyes snapped open and he took in a shuddering breath. One hand came up, gripped her shoulder, and pulled her down on top of him. He clutched at her as a child might a beloved stuffed toy, burying his face in her hair. His whole body quaked.

"Shhh, shhhh," she soothed, stroking his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck. "It's alright, you're alright." Part of her - the opportunistic, not so honorable part - was noticing and appreciating and filing carefully away the feel of his long, lean body pressed against hers, the warm, moist puffs of his breath against her skin. The better part was wondering what he'd been dreaming of to leave him in such a state.

"Hawke?" he said at last.

"Yeah," she said. "Bad dreams?"

"Part and parcel of the Grey Warden benefit package," he said. His voice still trembled just a little.

"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, remembering when Bethany had woken screaming from nightmares of Templars.

"Maker, no," he said. His fingers tightened for an instant.

"You don't have to," she said, pulling wisps of hair back from his temples.

He lifted his head out of the crook of her neck, revealing wet cheeks and golden eyes still slightly too wide. "I have to say, this beats waking up alone in a cold sweat all hollow." He attempted a smile.

"Any time," she said, trying to make it light and humorous. It came out husky instead and she bit her lip in chagrin.

His eyes fell to her mouth and his breath left him in a little, longing sigh. His hands shifted on her back, his hips moved against her, speeding her heartbeat. She didn't dare move.

"I've tried to hold back ..." he said.

One of the noise-maker glyphs went off.

Hawke practically levitated off him, her daggers coming to her hands in a motion so practiced by now that she barely had to think about it. She was at the perimeter, her eyes seeking the threat, before Varric and Fenris had come fully awake.

A single deepstalker, not even mature, hung suspended in a paralysis glyph, eyes swiveling in dumb animal panic.

"Fuck," she said. "Fuck!"

Anders extended a hand and the horrible shrilling noise quit.

She stomped out to the stinky, wretched lizard, and decapitated it. "Blighted, blasted, bloody bastard," she growled, and kicked the head as hard as she could, sending it winging out over the smouldering crack in the earth.

"Better than darkspawn," said Varric. "It's gotta be nearly my watch anyway. Lay down your pretty, bloodthirsty head, Hawke. I'll take over."

Anders had lain down again, face toward the cavern wall.

Cursing all denizens of the Deep fucking Roads, fucking dwarves included, Hawke lay down and seethed herself into sleep.


	12. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk _and_ a liar, Hawke? Leandra raised you better than this.

"Holy Maker, the works of thy hands are a marvel and a joy to my heart," said Hawke.

"It's the side of Sundermount," said Varric. "Don't get too poetic."

"It's sunlight, Varric!" said Hawke, turning her pale, dirty face to the sky. "Sunlight," she repeated, gratefully.

Anders sat down on a rock next to the narrow crack they'd dragged themselves through. It hadn't been much of a squeeze. They were, all of them, a lot thinner than when they'd entered the Deep Roads, more than a month before. Fenris especially looked like a wraith, the muscles on his arms and legs narrow and stringy. He still hefted that ridiculously massive sword with ease, however.

"Everyone sit down," said Hawke. "I think we're pretty close to that Dalish camp, I'll go and fetch help."

"The hell you say," said Varric. "I'm not some wilting flower. We'll both go."

"I can walk," said Fenris.

Anders forced himself upright again. "Together til the end?" he offered.

Hawke flashed them all that thousand sovereign smile of hers. "No girl in Kirkwall has better friends than mine," she said. "Even if none of you will go hat shopping with me."

"Once we're back in Kirkwall, I'll buy you every hat in the city," said Varric. "Let's get moving before my legs seize up."

The Dalish weren't precisely glad to see them, but they did feed them and offer them shelter for the night. It was amazingly difficult to sleep in an avavel. Anders kept half-rousing, groping for his staff, only to realize the noise he'd heard was nothing more than the wind. Finally, in the smallest hours before dawn, he gave it up as a bad job and went outside.

The stars were painfully beautiful and the sweep of them across the sky was dizzying after so long underground.

"Can't sleep?"

He leapt about three feet into the air, blue coronas flashing in his peripheral vision before whirling to see Hawke, eyes wide, standing behind him.

"Sorry!" she said and bit her lip to unsuccessfully trap a smile.

"It's not funny," he said. The blue receded. "I could have blasted you with lightning or fire or something."

"I would have dodged," she shrugged.

"You - I - don't do that again," he said.

"Maybe you should just bell me," she said. "Like a cat."

"Then you couldn't sneak up on anyone," he said. "Isn't that how you make your living?"

"Not anymore," she said with obvious relish. "We're rich, Anders. All of us. I can lay about and eat chocolate and get fat from now on. Mother can buy back the estate and we can line enough pockets that Bethany can shoot fireballs in the Hightown market and not have to worry for a second."

"No one is that rich," said Anders grimly.

"Alright, but the money will make her so much safer," said Hawke. "Maker, I feel _free_." She turned to him. "Thank you. So much. If it weren't for you, we would have died down there."

"You're the one who kept us together," said Anders. "Kept us going. Kept us from killing one another. You're kind of remarkable, Priana Hawke."

She stepped closer, smiling. "Is that one of those things you've tried to hold back?"

"Ah ...ha," said Anders. He'd hoped she'd forgotten that unadvised moment of weakness. "What happens in the Deep Roads stays in the Deep Roads?" he said hopefully.

"Is that what you really want?" she asked.

"Hawke ..." he said.

"Priana," she said. "I like the way you say it."

"Pri - _Hawke_ ," he said and then she leaned in and kissed him.

It was just a brief brush of her lips against his, nothing like the scorching assault she'd visited on him the night before they'd left Kirkwall. Somehow it felt more important.

"You said you weren't going to do that anymore," he said stupidly.

"I lied," she said, smirked, and walked away.


	13. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok this chapter is a bit of a drag, sorry.

Hawke sat on the steps of Gamlen's house, shoulders slumped, chin on her knees. Inside, her mother was still weeping, Gamlen murmuring to her softly.

Failure. Again.

She opened her hand and looked at the ruby pendant she'd meant to give to Bethany. It gleamed, bright and beautiful in the sunlight. She tipped her hand slowly, watching the gold chain unspool until the pendant dropped, _plink!_ to the stone steps. Then she picked it up again and threw it, hard, across the courtyard.

"Whoa!" A long, slender hand flashed out and snagged it out of the air. "So careless with your wealth already?" Anders smiled up at her. The smile slowly faded as he searched her face. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I - "  
 _  
"Her fault! Malcolm told her ...!"_ Leandra's cries became unintelligible again.

Hawke swayed a little where she sat.

"What is it?" said Anders, coming up to kneel on the step below her. He put a hand on her face and turned it up to see her eyes.

"Bethany's gone," she said. "When I got home ... Templars were here. I don't know who - Meraan maybe? She's gone. They took her."

Blue sparked in Ander's eyes, at his fingertips. "We will get her back," he said, his voice echoing with Justice's undertones.

"She told me not to," said Hawke. "She said she didn't want to run anymore."

Another cry came from inside the house, along with the sound of crockery breaking. Hawke couldn't help the flinch.

The blue faded out of Ander's eyes, leaving only compassionate honey-brown. "Let's get you out of here," he said, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and urging her up.

"My fault," she told him as they went down the steps. "It was my fault."

"Shh," he said. "No, it isn't. It's theirs. Don't you take their sins on you, Priana."

"It was for her," she said. "For Bethany. All that money. What was the point? We almost died down there and now it's all for nothing."

"It will be alright," he told her and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. He smelled of soap and elfroot and magic and she wanted to wrap him around her like a blanket and hide away.

"Where are we going?"

"To the Hanged Man," he said. "I'm going to leave you with Varric and go see if there's anything to be done."

"Like what?" she asked dully.

"Well, for one," he said as the icy tang grew sharp enough to sting her nose. "Find out who it was turned Bethany in."


	14. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is drunk, AGAIN. Anders makes it better.

In the end, it turned out that Bethany herself was responsible. She'd been goosed in the marketplace and startled enough to lose control, just a for a moment. A templar had been there, had sensed the surge of the Fade, and that had been that.

Anders supposed he could go out and hunt down the templar but he was a little wary of leaving Hawke on her own. She'd spent three days ensconced at the bar with Isabela, drinking Corff's 'whiskey' and saying practically nothing. Isabela and Varric were keeping an eye on her but it just about tore Ander's heart in two to see her so subdued, so quiet. Hawke was not quiet.

It couldn't last.

So he wasn't terribly surprised when Isabela dragged Hawke through the doors of his clinic late one night, bleeding and bruised and one eye swelling shut.

"Some damn idiot went off about Fereldens at the bar and Hawke just went for him," said Isabela, dumping Hawke onto the examination table. "Drunk as a sailor on three day leave, couldn't even stand up straight. Still took out him and three of his friends before I broke it up."

"You were there?" Anders said. "And you let them do this to her?"

"She asked for it," said Isabela pragmatically. "She wanted it, and frankly, I think she needed it."

"Bitch," Hawke slurred. "Lef' me high n dry. Fuckers! I show - showed them Ferelden. Dog lords! We bite!" She bared her teeth at Anders, further splitting her lower lip. "Ow."

"Maker," sighed Anders. "Alright. Please don't bite me, Hawke, I'm just going to heal all this."

"Wouldn't bite you," she said. "'less you wanted me to."

"She's all yours," said Isabela and turned toward the door.

"You're leaving her?" asked Anders.

"Nowhere else to put her, sweet thing," said Isabela. "Corff banned her for a week, she and her mum are still knocking heads, and I'm not going to dump her in some inn by herself in this state."

"You could stay with her," said Anders, trying to ward off Hawke's attempts to pluck the feathers from his pauldrons.

"And clean up sick all night? That's really more in your job description, isn't it?" Isabela grinned cheerfully and waved as she sashayed out the door.

"Terrific," Anders muttered.

"You don't want me here," said Hawke, dismally.

"Maker's balls," he said. "Look, just hold still a moment, let me take care of this."

It didn't take but a trickle of mana to patch her up. Just bruises and cuts, no broken bones or substantial damage. She sighed a little as he eased the swelling in her knuckles. Silently, he went on and purged her system of alcohol while he was at it. She was steadier afterward, but also more miserable.

"I guess this was pretty stupid," she said.

"You've done smarter things," he agreed.

"They won't let me see her." Hawke ran her thumb over the knuckles on her right hand. "That blonde one, Cullen, he told me that she was 'settling in well,' whatever that means. Gamlen said they got a letter when she passed her Harrowing."

"That's good," said Anders evenly.

The look she gave him was as harsh as a slap. "Shut the fuck up, Anders," she said. "You know it's not good. None of it is _good._ My baby sister is locked up for life and she's seventeen years old and I'm probably never going to see her again unless they take away her _mind_ and stick her out front to shill their fucking potions and rings." Hawke put her face into her hands and started to cry.

Justice stamped and raged around in Ander's mind, incensed by yet another innocent's fate. _THIS IS NOT RIGHT. ANOTHER FAMILY TORN APART. WE MUST DO SOMETHING._

Anders fought down the impulse to leap up, grab his staff, and go burn the nearest templar into a pile of ash. Instead, he sat down on the table beside Hawke and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Just don't tell me it's going to be alright," she choked.

"I won't," he said.

She wept herself dry, face turned against his chest. Everything inside him ached. At last she sat upright again, wiping at her red, tearstained cheeks.

"I'm trying," he said. "To make a world where this doesn't happen."

"I know you are," she said. "It's why I love you."

The air left his lungs, as if someone had punched him in the gut. "You don't," he wheezed. Maker's cock, he even sounded like an old man.

"I do, though," she said. "You're kind, and generous, and selfless. And funny, when you remember to be. And handsome." She looked up at him. "No, I take that one back. You're _beautiful_."

"Hawke," he said.

She slid off the table and stepped in front of him, serious and intent. "Please use my name," she said. "No one says it like you."

Oh, this was so wrong. Perhaps he could be excused his lapse in the Deep Roads, what with the horrific nightmares and the incipient death, but there was no mitigating circumstances here, just her warmth and her ale-tinged breath and the feather-weight of her hands on his thighs.

"This is -" he got out, before she leaned in and kissed him.

"Beautiful," she whispered against his lips and, "please," and, "Anders, I want you," and _Maker_ , really, there was a limit to what a man could withstand. If there was a special pit in the Void for dirty old men, well, he supposed that he'd been headed there for a while.

He put his hands into her hair, her gorgeous auburn hair, thick and silky just as he'd always imagined it, tugged gently until she bent her head back and bared her neck to him. Fuck, it had been so long, and she was so Maker-damned beautiful, sweet and tender. She shivered when he ran his tongue up to the crevice behind her earlobe. "Priana," he said into the cup of her ear. She let out the most stirring little groan and fell against him.

He stood, swept her up in his arms, and headed for the back room. She deserved better than his creaky little cot, but then, she deserved better than him.

She kissed him all the way there, up and down his neck, his chin, his lips, hungry nips and flicks of her tongue until he was practically unable to see. They fell onto his bed and he proceeded to plunder her mouth thoroughly. She writhed underneath him, her hands tugging futilely at the heavy buckles of his coat.

He reared up, wrestled briefly with the straps, and tossed the collection of quilted canvas and ragged feathers to the side. It fell with a whumpf! on the floor.

Priana lay back and bit her lower lip, looking at him. "Shirt, too," she said.

He grinned a little at her. "Bossy," he said and stripped his shirt off.

She let out a breath and sat up, reaching both hands out to run them from his collarbones to the waistband of his pants. She lingered over his scars, tracing her fingertips around the three raised circles over his ribs.

"Broodmother tentacles," he said.

She leaned forward and kissed them, softly. He shivered a little.

"How do you have so many?" she asked, touching slashes, running her thumb along a constellation of arrow puckers.

"Well, you know," he said, unsteadily. her fingers were calloused and a little rough and felt like heaven. "Battlefield healing, no time for finesse."

"Really?" She angled a look upward and then pulled off her own shirt. "Since I met you," she said, "not a single scar. Not even where that ogre just about pulverized my arm."

He ran his hands down her shoulders, across the upper slopes of her breasts. "Some things deserve a little finesse," he said. He let his hands drift downward, hooking under the edge of her breastband. Her lips parted. He tugged the laces on the side free, one by one, and then slipped the thing off her.

It was unmistakeable, the tiny hunch of her shoulders, the sudden drop of her eyes. He was the first to see her breasts. He swallowed, feeling the heavy thump of his pulse, the gathering tension in his groin. She darted a glance at him, colour high in her cheeks. The flush spread down her chest, staining her creamy flesh light pink. Her nipples tightened further under his gaze, all crinkle and taut rosiness.

"Fuck." His voice was all but unrecognizable, thick and low. _Rein it in_ , he told himself desperately.

Whatever she saw in his face, it wiped away her hesitation. She lay back on his dingy sheets, her hair spread out around her like a corona of fire, and held out her arms.


	15. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEX.

Oh, Maker, he was so fucking gorgeous she thought she might explode from wanting him. All lean muscle and shit, those scars, and the way he looked at her, as if she were both Andraste and a steak dinner all rolled into one. Alright, not a sexy comparison, but he looked so very hungry and at the same time awed, and it was making her just a little bit impatient.

"This isn't the Emporium," she said. "You can touch if you like."

He met her eyes and oh, _Maker_ he was smirking at her, and his gaze was so very knowing and all her insides were a giant knot of _yesyesyesyes_. He lay down, so carefully, above her and the partial weight of him pressed her into the mattress and made her want to squirm desperately and she could feel his cock, hard and insistent through their clothing.

"Uh," she said. There wasn't time to be embarrassed about her lack of suave because he was dipping his head down and oh _fuck_ , oh _Maker_ his tongue and mouth and she couldn't help the noise that escaped her when he put his teeth not-entirely-gently around her nipple.

"What's that?" he said against her skin. "More?" And he went on to the other breast, plucking gently at the already-moistened one with thumb and forefinger.

"Andraste'sfuckingcuntohfuck," she babbled, arching her back, pressing against him, seeking, wanting ...

"Such a mouth," he breathed. "Such a dirty mouth you have, Priana." He was pulling at the laces of her trousers, stripping them down her body with swift economy. Her smalls went with them, and her thighs tightened in reflexive modesty. "No," he said, kneeling up. He put one hand on each knee and pushed, gentle but firm. His eyes were nearly black, his irises practically swallowed by his pupils. "Let me in," he said. "I'm going to worship you," he said. "I'm going to make you scream," he said, and that was the one that unlocked her muscles, spread her open in front of him like a lascivious feast.

She was wet, so wet, embarrassingly wet, and she wanted very much to close her eyelids and hide but she could not take her eyes off him, off his face. He ran his hands up her thighs, curled them beneath her hips, and tilted her. He almost looked in pain, brows drawn together, teeth fastened in his lower lip. He freed a hand, drew it softly down her belly, and then pulled his middle finger down between the lips of her cunt, spreading her.

"Oh, Maker, Priana," he said, moaned.

"Nnnh!" she managed.

He slid down the bed, lowered his head, and put his mouth on her. Just. Hot. Tongue. Fuck. And then he _licked_ and.

Someone was making a noise like dying and she realized it was her, just before she came _apart_ like a flock of birds exploding into the sky. And he rode it out, coaxing her with little nips and licks until she was sobbing, pushing at him with both hands.

He drew away, wiping at his lips and chin, all tousled honey hair and smug and heat. "First time for that, hmm?" he said.

She lay, wrung out and glowing and unselfconscious. "First time," she confessed.

The breath went out of him and she glanced down, suddenly worried that she shouldn't have said so, that he was going to call the whole thing off.

"That ..." he swallowed, with difficulty. "I should really not find that ..." He climbed back up, took hold of her below the knees, and pulled her up the slope of his thighs. "I'm honoured," he said. "And so hard that I might come right in my pants if you keep telling me these things."

She laughed, half relief, half giddy joy. "Shouldn't you take them off, in that case?" she said, plucking at his laces with her toes.

"Whatever you want," he said, with such bottomless sincerity that it knocked the breath out of her.

"What _ever_ I want?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Uh, oh," he said. "I know that look."

"What look?" she said, pretending innocence.

"That one," he said, untying the laces on his pants. "The one you're wearing right now. The one that screams 'trouble.'"

"Uh," she said, distracted by the way his pants were now sagging on his hips, revealing the smooth flat planes of his lower belly and a dusting of hair that grew thicker as it went down. The cloth tented over the bulge of his impressive erection.

"Mmmmn," he said. "I like that look better."

"Take them off," she said.

"You do it," he told her.

She sat up and put her hands on his waist, on his velvet skin, and then rand them down the back of his pants, palms shaping the contours of his buttocks. His pants, loosened, slid downward, caught for a moment on his cock, and then fell to his knees.

Cock. Anders's cock. Hard. Naked. In front of her.

"You can touch if you wan - uh!"

Isabela was right. His noises did tell her if she was doing it right. Hand on the base, mouth over the end, and Maker, when they called it a hardon they weren't joking. He felt like silk over steel, and tasted of salt and musk and elfroot. Why elfroot? Did he jerk off with it? The idea of Anders jerking off in this bed, maybe to thoughts of her, made her moan a little.

"Andraste's tits!"

He sounded a bit frantic. Should she slow down? She drew back, laving her tongue up the underside, feeling the throb of the vein there, and took a breath. "Was that - "

He seized her shoulders, jerked her up to her knees, and kissed her, making desperate little grunts and gasps into her mouth, thrusting against her with his hips. Oh, Maker, she was hot all over again, the sounds he was making, like he was so fucking needy he just didn't care anymore.

He kissed his way down her jaw, bit her neck, and then took them back down onto the mattress, where he kicked his pants off and dropped into the cradle of her hips. She arched up under him, and felt his cock slip downward and then align ... just so ...

"Please," she whispered feverishly. "Please, please, Anders."

"Pri ... it might, you might ..."

"I know, don't care, oh, Maker, do it!" She clawed at the back of his neck. "Do it to me!"

"Wait, just ..." His face creased in concentration and she felt the familiar wash of his healing bathe her cunt.

"Are you ...?" She gasped out a laugh. "Is that your cock?"

"The mouth on you," he said, dropped his head, and eased his hips forward.

"Oh ... oh, Maker," she said. In her, he was _in_ her, and the warm tingle of his magic was in her, too. There was a tension, a not-quite-pain, and then nothing but the smooth, astonishing glide of _him_ into _her_. His pelvis met hers, snugly, and he put his forehead to hers. He was sweating.

"Alright?" he asked.

She shifted a little under him and they caught their breath together. "I ..." she said.

"Priana," he said.

She shivered. "Move," she said and shifted again, tilting her hips up.


	16. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets what she wants.

It was a memory he would treasure until the day he died - Priana's face as he slid his cock into her, all astonishment and pleasure and adorable, squinty concentration. The feel of her around him, hot and wet and tight as a vise, Maker, the feel of her was exquisite. And it was _Priana_ , ridiculous, lovely, generous, _wonderful_ Priana rolling her hips upward, begging him to _move, move, please, Anders..._

He moved. He braced himself on his hands and began slowly, working her open, watching her crease her brow and bite her lips and tilt her head back. Her eyes closed and then opened again, dazed and dark and utterly wanton. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, keeping the pace slow and smooth, though he couldn't help the groans that escaped as he watched her writhe under him.

"More," she whispered, lifting her knees and resting them along his torso. Her hands drifted down his back. Her fingernails scraped gently along his buttocks. "You're killing me, Anders ..."

"I want it to be good for you," he said.

"Well, I want you to ride me until I scream," she said, digging her nails in.

His hips stuttered forward at the flare of pain. "Andraste's knickers, where did you hear that one?"

"Isabela," they said together.

Priana grinned. "It sounded pretty good to me," she said.

He laughed breathlessly. "Well, here, wait ..." He gathered her up in one arm, lifted, and twisted. She let out a squeak as she landed across his chest. He almost slipped out but she shoved downward and hilted him again.

"Nuh!" she said. "Oh, that's ... hmmmnn." She sat up, tipped her hips forward and then back again.

"You ... you ride me," said Anders, running his hands up her body, cupping her breasts. "As hard as you like." Her lean, muscular thighs gripped him and he swallowed.

She put her hands down on his ribcage and began to move, tentatively at first, and then faster as she found her rhythm. He matched her pace, caressing her shoulders, her hips, her flexing buttocks. Maker, she was breathtaking above him, her belly tensing, her eyes intent. His orgasm loomed. He thanked the Maker he'd had a quick wank that afternoon, or he would have spilled back when she'd taken him in her mouth and that was no introduction for a virgin.

Her movements grew more staccato, her breath suspended as her mouth opened and her brows drew together. When she dropped a hand to the juncture of her thighs, he batted it away and pushed his thumb against her, rolling that little bead of nerves in tight circles. When she came, she did it with all the gusto and abandon of her first orgasm.

"A-Anders! Fuck! OhMakeryesyesyes, uh, uh, uh ..."

The sight of her, head flung back, the sound of his name on her lips, was too much. He thrust upwards frantically, his fingers digging into her hips, her breasts jerking with the force of his movements, and came into her in a rush that seemed to empty every crevice of his being.

She tumbled limply down on him and they lay sweatily together, panting and twitching.

"That was so good," she said eventually. Her voice was wrung out and wavering. "Anders, that was so good, you are really good at sex." She began to giggle. "Maybe my opinion isn't the most informed but that was really really good. In my opinion."

"It was good," he rasped. "Actually, it was spectacular."

"I will lay here forever," she said. "On you. Smelling you. You smell spectacular. You always smell spectacular, like elfroot and magic and you." She turned her face into the crook of his neck and inhaled, deeply.

"Maker, I love you," he said.

She giggled again, into his neck, making goosebumps race along his skin, and then bit him, gently. "Mine," she said. "Mine, mine, mine."

"Yours," he said. "I'm going to the Void, you know. You nineteen year old hoyden."

She propped herself up on one elbow. "I'm not nineteen," she said. "My birthday was yesterday."

"Oh," said Anders. "Well. Maybe Varric won't ventilate me, then."

Priana narrowed her eyes. "He better not. You're ..."

Anders pulled her down, kissed her slowly and thoroughly. "Yes, yes," he said against her lips. "Yours."

"And I'm yours." She wound her twenty-year-old arms around his neck and kissed him back.


End file.
